Dreamgirl
by WRTRD
Summary: Beckett is on Castle's mind. Really, really on his mind. Set shortly after 3x13, "Knockdown." Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

Richard Castle is asleep. Happily, even blissfully asleep, as a dream involving his favorite member of the New York City Police Department is just beginning to unspool in his unconscious, and—

The doorbell? It's three o'clock in the damn morning. Who's ringing the bell? Not just ringing, either, but buzzing a little seven-part something, over and over. Castle, wearing boxers, a tee shirt and one sock, is stumbling to the front door, trying to identify the rhythmic ringing. DUH duh duh DUH duh, duh DUH! Ah ha, he's got it. "Shave and a haircut, two bits!" He's going to kill the SOB who's doing it, whoever it is.

Except that whoever it is is his favorite member of the NYPD. His dreamgirl. Woman. Literally the woman of his dreams, who was in his bed a moment ago—well, not actually in his bed, but in his brain, his dream, while he was in his bed. "Beckett?"

She's smiling sunnily, even in the middle of the night. "Hi, Castle."

"Hi."

"Did I wake you up?"

"Wake me up? No, no, not at all, I was wide awake. In my office, totally awake."

"Really? Cause you look like you have bed head."

He raises his hand, feels his hair sticking up like the top of a soft swirl ice cream cone, and tries to pat it down.

"Here, let me take care of that," Beckett says, extracting a comb from her coat pocket and running it expertly through his hair. "Do you mind I come in?"

Is she kidding? Would he mind? No, he would not. Never. Not only would he not mind, he would be deliriously happy. He's feeling a little delirious right now, in fact. "Of course not. I'm sorry, please come in."

She strides in confidently, humming very faintly. He's trying to catch that tune, too, but he's not sure what to say. "What would be a good place, Castle? Your bathroom?"

Beckett in his bathroom? That sounds like a great place. Not as good as his bedroom, but a close second. If only he knew what had brought her to his door. To it, and inside it. "Uh, sure. Excellent. Could I, could I get you something first? A drink? A cup of coffee? A marshmallow?"

"A marshmallow?"

Where had that come from? He makes a quick recovery. "For hot chocolate. Would you like some? With a marshmallow? Or more than one, you could have as many as you want. I like the mini ones, but I have the big ones, too. You probably just want one, though. I know how you are about potato chips. Just one."

"Sounds nice, Castle, thank you. And I'll go for two marshmallows."

"Going wild, eh, Beckett?" Oh my God, what is he saying?

"Yup. Throwing caution to the winds. Right out the window. Whoosh!"

She's smiling every bit as sunnily as she had when he opened the door, before he started blithering, but he still has no inkling why she's here. "I'll just make it, then. The hot chocolate. Oh, and please make yourself at home."

"I'll sit in the kitchen and watch," she says, heading for a stool.

He gets a bottle of milk from the refrigerator and leaves the door open a bit longer than necessary in the hope that the cold air will jolt him into action. It's not until his last flick of the whisk that it does. "So, Beckett, to what do I owe the pleasure? Of your coming over, I mean."

She looks surprised. "Don't you remember?"

"Must have slipped my mind. You know, because I was writing. Lost track."

"You said, 'I could use a trim'."

When did he say that? Oh, wait. "Oh, wait. Right. You mean after we interrogated that slimeball stockbroker with the thousand dollar haircut?"

"Yeah. You said, 'What kind of a jerk would pay that kind of money for a haircut, especially a jerk with a combover?' And then you looked at your reflection and said you needed a trim."

"Uh huh."

"So I came over. I noticed you've got a little five o'clock shadow—"

"Three o'clock." Shit, he did it again.

She's still smiling. "Three o'clock shadow, so I'll give you a shave _and_ a haircut."

That explains the coat. She's wearing a white coat. Like a barber. Except she's Beckett, so. He chuckles.

"What's so funny, Castle?"

"I was just thinking about your coat. It's a Barbour coat, right? Not a barber coat."

"You've got a good eye for fashion. Now, are you gonna hand me a mug of that hot chocolate, or what? And don't forget my marshmallows."

He drops three in the mug and passes it to her. "One for good measure, Detective."

"Thanks," she says, tasting it before raising the mug in salute. "Delicious. But time's a-wastin', so shall we get started? I'll just bring this with me, if that's okay. Sip while I work."

They're about halfway through the living room when he realizes that he's about to be busted. His bed. His bed is a mess, the duvet sliding to the floor, a pillow probably already there. What to say, what to say, what to say. And now she's in his bedroom, talk about a fantasy made flesh.

"Hmm, Castle. I didn't wake you up?" She's pointing to his bed. "The evidence indicates otherwise."

"Evidence isn't always as it appears," he says, buying himself a little time until inspiration floods his brain. There it is, he feels it. "I took a nap before, and then I got up to write. I do that a lot."

"Uh huh," she says, still smiling as she walks into his bathroom. "This place is huge, Castle. You could have three barber chairs in here."

"Yeah, well. Speaking of chair, I guess I should get one. Will my desk chair work?"

"Other than the fact that it doesn't recline?"

Recline, oh, the image.

"Yeah, sorry."

"Not a problem, I'm sure I'll be able to handle it."

It takes all his rapidly vanishing will power not to run, or at least skip, to his office to get the chair, but he manages to walk at a stately pace. Or as stately as a pace can be when you're dressed as he is. He rolls the chair to the bathroom and she positions it in front of the basin and the enormous mirror that's mounted above it. "Which first, Castle, haircut or shave?"

"Haircut, please." It's not until he sits down that he notices that she has a bag with her. He watches in the mirror as she removes clippers, scissors, a razor, a shaving brush, a covered wooden bowl of shaving cream, and a tiny bottle of something, all of which she lays out neatly on the counter, along with the comb that had been in her pocket. She bends over the bag once more and pulls out a smock, which she opens with a flourish and drapes over him, snapping it closed at the back of his neck.

Beckett runs her fingers through his hair, fluffing it up a little. Thank God for the smock, he thinks. "So, a little off the sides, neaten up the back? How's that?"

"Perfect," he says. You have no idea how perfect, he doesn't say. She's incredibly efficient, and way too fast—way too fast because he wants this to go on for at least an hour, especially the part where she blows a little hair off his neck, just under his ear. Now she pats him on the shoulder.

"How's that?" Smiling.

"Worth at least a thousand bucks. Do you take personal checks?"

"On the house, Castle. Ready for your shave?"

"Yes."

"I brought equipment, as you see, but if you'd rather I use yours?"

"Your equipment looks top of the line, Beckett." His mouth, his mouth. He'd shove the smock in it but he needs to leave it where it is.

"Thanks. Now, does the cabinet right behind me have washcloths and towels?"

"Mmhmm."

"Great, I'll just get a couple."

He closes his eyes and listens to her walk across the tiled floor and back. Hears her turn on the hot water and open that little bottle. He's just about to yield to temptation and open his eyes when two hot, damp washcloths surround his face and a delicious scent goes right to his brain.

"Sandalwood," she says. "Sandalwood oil, hope that's all right with you. I put in my bath when I really want to relax."

Oh, God, he thinks, please don't talk about your bath right now. This is not a good time, really not. "Mmhmm."

She removes the washcloths, soaps his face and gives him the best and unquestionably most sensual shave of his life. She's humming while she works, the same tune as before. Maybe talking would be a good distraction. "What's that tune? It's so familiar but I can't quite get it."

" _Barber of Seville_. Seemed appropriate."

"Oh, my God, right. 'Rabbit of Seville'! Bugs and Elmer! One of the greatest cartoons ever."

She's wiping off a little dab of shaving cream that had landed on his nose. "Good to know that Looney Tunes gave you an operatic education, Castle." Smiling. "There, I think you're done."

He rubs his hands over his cheeks. "Wow, Beckett. If you ever decide to leave police work, you could open a salon. Seriously."

He's looking at her in the mirror again and sees her wink. Swear to God, she winked at him.

"You liked your tonsorial treat, did you?"

Oh, sue me, he thinks, gotta ask this. "Can you say that again?"

"You liked your tonsorial treat, did you?"

"I loved it."

"Good. I'll just pack up this gear and be going."

And before he can remarshall his senses, she's at the front door. "Night, Castle. See you in the morning."

He has just enough wits to open the door for her. "Thank you, Beckett. Tomorrow?"

She holds up her wrist so that he can see her watch. "Already is, Castle." She walks to the elevator and disappears.

He's not sure how he's able to find his way back to bed, but he does, and instantly falls asleep.

A few hours later he takes one of the quickest showers of his life, gets dressed and drives to the precinct. Before he goes up he detours two blocks to Beckett's favorite pastry shop and gets her a pain au chocolat. He's just about to pay for it and their coffees when he realizes that he can't arrive at the bullpen with something like that, just for Beckett, and not get a lot of questions from the boys. He considers briefly and asks for a few eclairs. Then, two wax paper bags and a cardboard tray firmly in hand, he walks to the Twelfth.

"Morning, all," he says, and three heads pop up in unison. He carries the bag of eclairs to Ryan and Espo before taking his usual place next to Beckett's desk. "Cafe," he says, "and a pain au chocolat."

"Wow, Castle. _Merci_! What's the occasion?" She takes a bite of the pastry and makes a sound that he'd pay at least a grand to hear again.

"What's the occasion?"

"Yeah, is this a special day or something? You don't usually bring things from the patisserie, especially this." There's the thousand-dollar sound again.

He hums a few bars of the overture from _The Barber of Seville_. No reaction from Beckett.

"This is so freaking good, Castle," she says. "Hey, did you get a haircut or something?"

His mouth opens of its own accord. Then shuts. Then opens again. "Did I get a _haircut_?"

"Yeah, your hair looks a little different this morning. Did you change barbers or something?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, yes, I did."

"Well, stick with him."

"Her."

"Okay, her."

The phone rings. "Beckett." She's nodding her head. "Got it. Mmhmm. We'll be right there." She clicks off. "We've got a murder, guys. Let's go."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

If Castle were to rate this homicide—and he does, all of them, in a little notebook that Beckett would kill him for if she ever found out—he'd give it only a two. There was virtually nothing to solve, given the big, fat fingerprints all over the murder weapon, which was a pressure cooker lid. Fat fingerprints is right, he thinks, as he watches the 400-pound perp sign his confession and slide it across the table to Beckett.

"There oughta be a place where I can object, your honor."

"I'm not the judge, Mister Fryer, I'm the detective."

"Yeah, I meant I object to my wife's cooking."

"Your late wife. And believe me, where you're going the cooking will be a lot worse."

After Fryer has been taken away in supersize-me handcuffs, Beckett and Castle are having coffee at her desk. "You know," he says cheerily, "as easy as it was to crack that case, there were parts of it that really tickled me."

"Murder isn't supposed to entertain, Castle."

"I know, I know. But you have to admit there were some hilarious aspects."

"Such as?"

"Such as the murder site being a kitchen and the weapon being part of a pressure cooker. I mean, look at him, he weighs more than the two of us together."

"We're not together, Castle."

He sees her tiny smile, though, the one that her favorite office mug cannot entirely conceal. "He looks like a pressure cooker, doesn't he? That red face and all those chins? Like he's going to explode any minute. And what about his name? Fryer? Doesn't get any better than that." He's beginning to think he should up the case rating to a three.

Beckett takes a big gulp of coffee, but he knows she mumbled something into it.

"What's that?"

"I didn't say anything."

"Yes, you did. You pushed your hair behind your ear while you were holding your mug. Total tell."

"Hmmph."

"C'mon, Beckett. Spill. If you don't, I'll torture it out of you."

"And how will you do that, Castle?"

"Oh, so many, many ways."

She puts her hands up. "Okay, okay. I said 'skillet'."

"Skillet?"

She looks deeply into her regrettably empty mug. "It would have been even better if he'd killed her with a skillet."

He laughs so hard that he almost chokes on his coffee, some of which lands on his shirt. A skillet! The rating for this homicide just went to four.

"You okay, Castle?" Ryan calls from across the room.

"Fine, thanks. Just swallowed wrong."

Beckett pins him with her best cautionary look.

"I won't. I won't. Not saying a thing."

"Good. Now I gotta get to the paperwork."

"Right. I'm just gonna go work on my shirt."

"I figured."

He spends the next ten minutes in the break room, treating the coffee stain with some seltzer and drying it as much as he can with paper towels. He uses the time to think about Beckett the Barber, but gets nowhere. She had to have been there. It couldn't have been a dream, could it? She even said something about his hair looking good. Trouble is, he put extra styling stuff in it this morning because he didn't have time to wash it, so he can't tell if it's that or if his hair really is shorter. She didn't say shorter, anyway, she just said did he get a haircut "or something." What about the shave, though? Shit, he can't tell about that either, because in his befogged state this morning he'd run his electric razor over his face and hadn't even noticed if he'd needed to. He'll have to start sniffing around. Maybe he'll make her another cup of coffee. She's doing paperwork, she'll like that. Might weaken her defenses. He roots around and finds her favorite beans, and makes the best cup of his life. It's a masterpiece, if he does say so himself. He even made the shape of an NYPD badge in the foam.

Castle is almost at her desk when he hears that she's humming softly. Humming! Just like she had at in his apartment at three o'clock in the morning. It's not _Barber of Seville_ , though, or "Shave and a Haircut." Huh. "For you, Detective," he says, placing the mug near but not dangerously close to her keyboard.

"Thanks, Castle," she says. "Oh, that's sweet. A police badge. I'll drink this one carefully."

"How's the paperwork going?"

"Fine, not too complicated with this case, luckily."

"That why you were humming?"

"Humming?"

"You were humming."

"Yeah, sorry. Didn't realize it was loud enough to hear."

"I was trying to guess the tune. It sounded familiar." Actually, it hadn't sounded familiar at all, but there could be a clue here.

"It was an old Elvis song."

"Really? Do tell."

" 'Crawfish,' from a movie of his."

"What brought that to mind, Beckett? The subconscious is a really interesting place, you know."

"Nothing subconscious about 'Crawfish.' It was skillet that prompted it. You don't know that song?"

"Educate me, please," he says, resting his chin in his hand.

Beckett sings, sotto voce, " 'Now take Mr. Crawfish in your hand, He's gonna look good in your frying pan'."

"Why do I have a feeling there's more to that song than meets the ear?"

"There is. You can look it up. Some of us have work to do."

"Why Detective Beckett, you sound a little snappish. Have you not been sleeping well?"

"I've been sleeping like a baby, Castle, which is why I have the energy to plow through this paperwork so quickly. Assuming I'm not interrupted, of course."

He pushes himself up from the chair and stretches. "I can take a hint. It's late and I'm heading home."

"Gotta make dinner for Alexis?"

"Nope. Mother's in Florida all week, and Alexis is at Model UN in Albany until tomorrow night. "

"Oh, that's nice. Good for her."

"But I've got a lot of other things to do at home. To, you know, look into." He looks levelly at her, but she just smiles as usual.

"Night, Castle," she says, and returns to her papers.

He's no closer to knowing whether she was a dream than he had been hours ago, but there should be some answers at home. He can hardly wait to get there.

As soon as he closes the front door he goes to the kitchen. He hadn't tidied up before he'd left for the precinct, hadn't even been in there. There should be evidence of the hot chocolate they'd had—mugs in the sink, a saucepan with residue, a tin of cocoa powder on the counter. But there's nothing. Nothing at all. Wait, the housekeeper! She'd come, obviously run the dishwasher, everything. He takes out his phone and calls.

"Hi, Alicia?"

"Rick? Is something wrong at home?"

"No, no, everything's fine. I just had a quick question. By any chance did you clean up some hot chocolate in the kitchen? A saucepan? Mugs?"

"No, there was nothing like that. Nothing on the counter, and the sink was empty except for half a glass of water, that's all. Did I miss anything?"

"Nope, it's perfect as always. I must have cleaned up without realizing it. Half asleep or something." He chuckles feebly. "Sorry to have bothered you, Alicia."

"It's ever a bother. I'll be in day after tomorrow."

"Right. Thanks again. Night."

"Night."

There was one more possibility: the doorman. No. No. No. He bangs his head against the fridge. He had given Beckett full access to the garage when she had stayed in the loft a year ago after her apartment had blown up. So last night she'd have driven in, parked and come up without the doorman, or anyone else, knowing.

There are two explanations. A, he's missing something or B, he's crazy. He'd rather it were A, even though it would wound his pride to overlook something, than B. Or maybe there's a C. It was just a very, very vivid dream. That's it. That's a reasonable and sane explanation. He's going with C. A dream. A dream within a dream. He was dreaming about Beckett and then he thought he'd woken up and seen her but that was also a dream. Perfectly sensible. Everybody dreams.

He needs a drink.

He has one.

He makes a grilled-cheese sandwich and sits down at his desk to chew over the situation. Okay, if it was a dream, why was she cutting his hair? Does he think of them as Samson and Delilah? Please. Ridiculous. Maybe it was just a safe way to dream of her. Not an actual sexual dream, a sensual one. Sensual and sexy even though she was wearing that coat and sneakers. Erotic without being X-rated. Well, that sucks. If he's going to have an erotic dream about Beckett, couldn't she at least be naked? He needs to have a word with Hypnos about this. Funny, he hadn't known anything about the god of sleep until Beckett told him when they were both trying to stay awake during a stakeout. She knows a lot about Greek mythology. She knows a lot about a lot of things, which is one of at least 500 reasons he loves her.

Oh. Oh.

It's not that he didn't know, doesn't know, it's just that he's never said it out loud in his head. Because then he might say it out loud, period, and that would be—.

No wonder he's been dreaming. It's so safe.

He's going to go to bed. He strips down, tosses his clothes in the hamper, and picks up his toothbrush. Hmm, does he smell sandalwood oil? In your dreams, he thinks. Yeah, in your dreams would be good, if they're anything like last night's. Beyond good.

He gets into bed, contentedly, and pulls the covers up to his neck. Sweet dreams, he tells himself, before he falls asleep.

The doorbell rings.

TBC

 **A/N** I loved the theories about the last chapter, especially those reviewers who thought that Beckett was sleepwalking! Thank you all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

 **A/N** Some readers were still confused after chapter 2, for which I apologize. So, to clarify: in the the parts of the story in which Beckett arrives at the loft in the middle of the night, Castle is dreaming. In all other parts of the story, however, he is awake, and everything is real. At the end of chapter 2, Castle acknowledges to himself that he's in love with Beckett but is afraid to say so, and he realizes that dreaming about her is his "safe" way of thinking about her. Beckett is definitely not sleepwalking and doesn't know that he's dreaming about her. Yet. And now, on to Castle's next dream, followed by his waking up:

Castle, out of bed as if he'd been hit with a cattle prod, runs and slides through the loft as the doorbell continues to ring. There's no rhythmic buzzing this time, just repeated presses on the bell. The intervals between presses are getting shorter, and when he wrenches the door open there is Beckett, just about to jab the bell again.

She's got on leggings, an oversized jersey, and ballet flats, and her hair is in a braid, with little wisps escaping from it. She's wearing no makeup and looks about 13, but she also looks mad as hell.

"Rick Castle?" she says, less as a question of his identity than an accusation.

"Beckett?"

"Rick Castle?" she repeats.

"Yes, yes. Rick Castle. You know me. Come on in. Mi casa es su casa, as always."

She sails in and turns sharply to face him. She has to tilt her head upwards slightly, because for once she's not in heels. "You put a spell on me."

That's a hell of an opening. "A spell?"

"Yes. A spell."

"Are you calling me a warlock? Because I'd love that. If only it were Hallowe'en."

"I'm a detective, a homicide detective, but you've turned me into something else."

He's completely at sea, but he doesn't care. His dream girl—woman—is back. "I didn't. Haven't. What did I turn you into, anyway? You look exactly the same to me." Actually, better. It's the no make up.

"You turned me into an anagramist."

"A what?"

"Surely you know what that is, Castle. You're a writer, for God's sake. A wordsmith, as you're fond of pointing out."

He scratches his head. "Can't say that I've ever heard the word, but I'm pretty sure it's someone who likes to write anagrams? Like 'ideals' for 'ladies' or 'flog' for 'golf'?"

"Exactly. It's a freaking spell, you wordsmith witch. Warlock. Whatever. After I got home from work I picked up my phone to text you about something. When your name, Rick Castle, came up on the screen, I suddenly started thinking only in anagrams. My brain is going to explode. I know you put a spell on me. You, Rick Castle, TILE CRACKS!"

"What?"

"That's you, buster," she says, poking him in the chest. "Let me arrange the letters again. SLICK CRATE."

"Slick Crate?"

"Or would you prefer—" she pokes him in the chest again—"CLEAR STICK? Or maybe IT CRACKLES?"

Right then the penny drops. He knows that he shouldn't be grinning, but his smile is so wide that it's not a tile that's cracking, it's his face. "RICK CASTLE! Yes, that's me. I really like Slick Crate, though. Might have to use that as an alternate ID. 'Hello gorgeous, I'm Slick Crate. What brings you to my little world?' Oh, yeah! You got any more anagrams of my name, Beckett?"

"Oh, you bet, LICE TRACKS."

He shudders. "Eww, no, I don't like that one. Lice are right there with bedbugs in my personal vision of hell."

"Yeah, well try having anagrams crawling and jumping around in your brain like those little vermin, Castle. I want these anagrams out of here." She knocks herself hard on the head with her fist. "Now."

Oh, boy, she is seriously pissed off. Still, a pissed off Beckett in his loft is better than no Beckett at all. Especially in that shirt that's big but very clingy at the same time and oh, sweet Jesus, she's not wearing a bra. She must be so mad that she doesn't realize it. He'll try not to stare, too much. "Um, Beckett, why don't we go in the kitchen? I'll make you some coffee and we'll figure this out."

"I don't want any coffee, damn it."

Well, that stops him in his tracks. Is this a Beckett clone gone wrong? "You don't want coffee?"

Her hands are on her hips, her eyes are narrowed. "No. No coffee. It will just stir up these fucking anagrams, make the little jitterbugs even more active than they already are."

"How about some hot chocolate, then?"

"Okay, that sounds good."

He makes it as quickly as possible, and carries it into the living room where he sets the tray down on the (coffee) table while he and Beckett sit on the sofa. "Here you go," he says. "Hot chocolate is very soothing. Except to dogs, of course. Dogs aren't supposed to have chocolate."

"There you go with dogs again," she says. "Dogs are what got me into this anagram nightmare."

"Huh?"

"Dogs, Castle, dogs. You remember when we were on our way back from the murder scene yesterday? The Fryers' apartment?"

"Yeah."

"There was that labradoodle standing next to my car and you had to talk to its owner for-ev-er about all the great names there were now for cross breeds, like labradoodle and puggle and schnoodle and dachador and snorkie."

"So?"

"And then in the car you said, 'Isn't it funny that dog backwards spells God?' And how you'd seen this tee shirt that said, 'I believe in Dog' and how you really should get one. But could you drop the word play there? No, you could not. In the elevator you said, 'Don't you love anagrams? How great is it that evil is an anagram for vile?' So, you see, this is all your fault."

"Oh. Right. Power of suggestion."

"Power of something. You put it all in my head, Castle, and now you have to get it out."

"Okay, well first could I compliment you on saying I put a spell on you since anagrams are about spelling? Really clever. Most people would have said curse, or hex."

"Castle! Help me!"

"I'm sorry. You must feel like you're in a canoe in the ocean without a paddle." He can't help chuckling.

"I get it, I get it: canoe and ocean, anagrams. Very clever, Castle. Just reverse the spell before I lose my mind."

Her anxiety level is bumping up his own. He doesn't know if he's responsible for the pickle she's in, but even if he is, he has no idea how to fix things. He can feel her tensing up near him, feel her breath getting shallower. He's got only one idea, and he's going to have to run with it before she melts down.

"You know, Beckett. There's one thing that's worked through history. Centuries. Millennia, even. And I'm going to give it a try. Are you ready?"

She looks slightly alarmed. "Ready for what?"

"This." He closes the gap between them and takes her face in his hands. "I'm gonna kiss you to make it better." He starts gently, because he doesn't want to spook her, but he needs to use just enough pressure so that she knows he means it, just enough warmth to keep her there, just enough, please God, to make her want more.

At first she's rigid, and then she begins to soften. Begins not only to receive, but to return. His hands are in her hair now, and hers have moved around his neck. And is that, could it, yes. It's her tongue. He responds with his. If this is heaven, he's happy that he's dead. But in the interests of self-preservation, he's not going any further right now, much as he'd like to. Much as he'd like to explore that soft skin and that sweet scent, to pick her up, carry her to bed, peel her clothes off and—. No, he's stopping here. He doesn't want her regretting anything later. After all, she came over to see him to get him to get rid of her anagramania, not to have sex. So, with considerable sorrow, he lets go of her, and moves a few inches away. He clears his throat, hoping that the action might do the same for his head. "So, did it work?"

She's blinking her eyes, looking around the room as if not entirely sure she knows where she is.

"Quick, Beckett, what's an anagram for jar?"

"What?"

"Give me an anagram for jar."

"Can't think of one."

"It worked! I kissed you and made it better! Oh, and raj, by the way. Anagram for jar. Just popped into my head because of that Indian vase in the window."

Her cheeks are pink—he's guessing both from the make-out session and from embarrassment. She runs her fingers through her hair, and her palms down her thighs, and stands up. "Um, thanks, Castle. I'm sorry if I was so mad, sorry I woke you up. I think I woke you up. I was desperate, though."

"Understandable, Beckett. I'm sorry, too—" sorry that you're obviously leaving, when I want you stay so badly I'm about to die—"that I put a spell on you. It was completely unintentional, really."

"I've got to be going. Thanks for the hot chocolate, too. Very soothing, just as you promised. I'll see you at the station."

They walk together to the door, a little awkwardly. "Night, Castle," she says, giving his arm a squeeze.

He leans over and kisses her on the cheek. "One for good measure, to keep that spell away," he says. "See you tomorrow."

He goes back to bed.

When Castle wakes up, he's surprised to see that it's almost nine. He grabs his phone: no texts from Beckett, no alarms, no bodies. He gets out of bed and makes coffee. Has to make peace with that dream before he calls her.

"Hey, Beckett."

"Hey, Castle."

Oh, God, he remembers her breath on his neck last night. He can feel it now. "Uh, anything going on that I should know about?"

"Nope."

"No one has shuffled off this mortal coil at the hands of another?"

"No, Shakespeare. No murders in this jurisdiction so far today."

"I'm going to be at home, then. Gotta catch up on some writing."

"Okay. I'll call you if any coils are violently shuffled in this direction."

"Okay. Thanks, Beckett. Bye."

"Bye."

He spends the next several hours trying to decide what to do. He doesn't think he can survive another one of these dreams. He's going to tell her. If she shuts him down, so be it. But it's time.

At four he calls her again.

"Hey, Beckett."

"Hey."

"I was wondering what you were doing for dinner." He's already wincing. What if she has a date? Some new guy he doesn't know about?

"Dunno. Takeout, probably. Watch something on TV or read. Why?"

"Well, Alexis was supposed to come home tonight."

"Model UN, right?"

"Right. But she's staying an extra day for some high-school state legislature thing. Anyway, I have this filet mignon that I got for her and it's already marinating. I can't eat it all by myself. Plus I've already peeled the potatoes. So, would you like to come over, help me eat this food?"

"Sure. That's nice. Sounds a lot better than mu shu. Thanks. When should I be there?"

"Oh, come over when you finish your shift, if you like."

"Okay. Well, thanks. See you in a bit."

"Right. Happy you can make it, Beckett. Bye."

He's glad of the distraction of making dinner, but he's still nervous as an eighth-grader trying to ask out the prettiest girl in the class. Except that the stakes are a lot higher. He sets the table. Three times. Everything's ready.

The doorbell rings.

This time, just once. He knows he's awake, and he knows who's at the door. Officially invited, this time. There she is.

"Hi. Come on in."

"Hi. Thanks for asking me over. Here." She offers him a bottle of red wine.

"Wow, nice one, Beckett."

"Figured filet mignon deserved it. You probably already—it's probably, you know, coals to Newcastle. But."

"No buts, Beckett. This is great. Thanks."

She asks if there's anything she can do in the kitchen, and he lets her dish out the vegetables while he takes care of the steak. He notices that she's humming again, very faintly. Did she always do that, or did he just start noticing?

"Beckett?"

"Mmm?" She looks up from the spinach.

"Whatcha hummin'?"

"Oops, caught me again."

"No, I like that you hum." You can hum in my ear anytime. "What is it?"

"Irving Berlin."

"Yeah? What?"

" 'Supper Time'. Wonderful song."

He swallows. "So, shall we eat?"

Things are easier after that. They talk shop, shop and everything else. But they've had dessert and she's going to go, so it's now or never.

"Would you like some coffee before you head home?"

"Thought you'd never ask, Castle."

"Oops, sorry. Well, I'm asking."

"Yes, please."

They're sitting at the table, happily. He hands her the coffee as he does nearly every morning, except they're not in the station house, they're in his house. Just the two of them. And he made the coffee himself, and it's in porcelain mugs, not paper cups, and his hands are shaking.

"Uh, there's something I have to tell you."

"Wow, Castle. You look serious. Everything okay?"

"I've been having these dreams."

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

Beckett puts down her coffee so that she can give him her full attention. He really does look uncharacteristically serious. Grave, almost. "You sure you're all right? Are you having nightmares?"

"Nightmares?" That takes him aback. "Oh, no. Not nightmares. Exactly the opposite. Sorry if I seemed, you know, worried." He smiles, somewhat feebly.

"That's a relief." She picks up her mug and has it halfway to her lips when she stops. "Oh, wait, these aren't porn dreams, are they? Hot naked girls with whips and whipped cream? Because say no more if they are. You can save them for Espo. Maybe not Ryan, though. He still has a lot of choirboy in him."

At any other time that would have made him laugh, but now he's too nervous.

"No, no. Not at all. Nothing X-rated about these dreams. They're positively PG—well, except for some of the language. You've got quite a mouth on you when you're mad." Oh, God, what has he done? Why hadn't he written this out ahead of time? The look on her face, her suddenly pale, very pale face.

"My language?"

"Uh."

" _My_ language? Do I appear in these dreams of yours? Swearing up a storm? Who else is in them?"

"Me. I. I am. You and I are in them. Just us."

The mug is still in her hand. She looks both nervous and cornered. "Oh. Well. Well, we're partners. Work together every day. Sometimes almost around the clock." She waves her hand in a vaguely circular motion. "All kinds of dramatic situations, murders, things. Not surprising to dream about us, right? Working. Normal, really. Completely normal."

"I don't think these dreams are exactly normal."

And there goes at least eight ounces of Jamaica Blue Mountain coffee, all over her jeans. He grabs a dishtowel, which he had unaccountably thrown over his shoulder just before he left the kitchen, and tries to put it on her lap, or what would be her lap if she were still sitting. Instead, he has inadvertently wrapped the towel, and thus his hands, around her thigh. They both freeze in place, until he lets go and the towel falls soggily to the floor.

"Did the coffee burn you?" he asks, horrified. "Are you okay?"

"Fine. I'm fine, Castle. Not burned. Just hot. I mean, the coffee is hot, but not scalding." She pulls the damp denim as far away from her leg as she can, which isn't far enough. "Ouch. Damn. Damn. Hotter than I thought."

"Take them off."

She gapes at him.

"Not here! I mean, go into my bathroom and take them off." He points in the direction of his bath and she half hops, half hobbles across the room. "Put some cold water on them, and on your skin," he calls to her retreating back. And mine, he says to himself. A full-immersion cold bath would be good, right now. "I'll get you something to wear." Disaster, he's thinking. Titanic disaster. Talk about a cold bath. He's steered them into an iceberg and he can feel the ocean about to pull them to an icy grave.

And what can he give her to wear? She's not the same size as Alexis or his mother. Oh, maybe he could lend her some sweatpants, or a robe, and run her jeans through the dryer. Shouldn't take more than 30 minutes. No problem, not at all: half an hour of utter humiliation shouldn't kill him. He grabs a pair of clean sweatpants from a drawer, knocks quietly, and explains what he'll do. She opens the bathroom door just enough to make the pants exchange; he flees to the dryer.

A few minutes later both tentatively approach the sofa, arriving simultaneously but standing uncomfortably at opposite ends. Time to man up, he figures.

"Beckett?" he asks, shoving his hands in his back pockets to hide the fact that they're shaking worse than before. "Could I start over, please?"

"Oh. Okay. Yeah. I'll just sit."

He pauses for a moment, wants to clear the air a little. "Nice pants, by the way."

"You like 'em? They belong to a friend of mine. He's a dreamer. Although he'd probably say he's a dreamboat. He's given to that kind of self-assessment. I'm just saying he dreams. Apparently."

This time he does laugh, hard, and finally sits down, too. He turns his head sharply and looks towards the door. "Whoa, did you see that?"

"See...?"

"I think the elephant just left the room."

Now it's her turn to laugh. "You know what? I really need some coffee."

"Coming up. Won't take a minute."

He's almost finished when he realizes that she has joined him in the kitchen, and is peering into a cabinet. "Can I get you something, Beckett?"

She smiles, that lopsided one that he's seen only a couple of times before. "I was hoping that you had some peanuts. If the elephant didn't eat all of them, that is."

"Peanuts? We've got salted, unsalted, dry roasted, honey roasted, chocolate-covered, and unshelled. The elephant is partial to the unshelled, but not the others."

"Honey roasted, then."

He gets a jar, pours some nuts in a bowl and hands it to her. "If you'll take this, I'll carry the coffee."

By the time they're back in the living room, he's wishing that he'd added a shot of something to his, as his bravery is deserting him.

"Okay, starting again. You remember the other morning when I brought you the pain au chocolat?"

"Sure. It was delicious. A nice surprise."

"You asked me if it was a special occasion."

"I did? Oh, right, I did, and you never answered."

"Before I even had time to, you said that my hair looked different, and had I had a haircut or something?"

"Don't know where you're going with this, Castle, but yeah, I remember. You said you had a new barber, a woman."

"I did, but that wasn't entirely accurate."

"Your new barber isn't entirely a woman? What, is she or he transitioning or something? I can't believe you never brought that up before. You'd love that, a transgender barber."

He needs to get this conversation back on track, but it's not easy. "No, what I meant was it wasn't entirely accurate that I had a new barber."

"Castle."

He waits, but that's all she's saying.

"Yes?"

"Maybe my wine-to-caffeine ratio has temporarily affected by deductive abilities, but I really don't understand what you're saying here. And weren't you going to tell me about your dreams?"

"I am, I am. Okay, here's the thing. When I said that to you, that morning? At that time I really did believe I had a new barber, and it was you."

"Say what?"

"I had had an amazingly vivid dream just a few hours before." He doesn't dare look at her, so he's fixing his eyes on something that he can't quite bring into focus over her left shoulder. "In my dream I woke up because someone was ringing my doorbell in the middle of the night. When I opened the door, there you were, in a white coat, carrying a bag, and you said that you'd come over to cut my hair and give me a shave. And you did. It was incredible. You even had a bottle of sandalwood oil and you put a few drops on the hot washcloths you used on my face."

Now he risks a quick peek, and what he sees is that her eyes are larger than any kinkajou's, in captivity or out. "I shaved your face? I cut your hair?"

"It was so sexy, I mean sensual. There was no sex, seriously, Beckett. I old you it was PG."

"You thought this was _real_? When you woke up couldn't you tell that you hadn't a hair cut?"

"I know this sounds crazy, but I couldn't. Didn't. I slept late and I left home so fast to get to the precinct that I didn't do my usual hair routine."

She looks a little less stunned. She even almost smiles. "Ha! I knew you had one, Castle. A —" she makes air quotes with her fingers—" 'hair routine'."

"Yeah, well, I was rushing, so I just slapped on some gel and that's why my hair looked different to you. But I didn't figure that out until later."

At least she's looking at him, and not pulling away to the far end of the sofa. "You believed this."

"I did. You should have been there. Of course, if you'd been there it would have been real. Please, you just have to take my word for it. I was a hundred percent sure that it had happened. And I was looking for clues and dropping hints. Remember we had that case, the Fryers? And when you were doing the paperwork I caught you humming?"

"Yeah. So?"

"It was exactly the way you'd been humming in the dream, even if it was a different tune."

"I was humming in the dream?"

"Yes, it was _The Barber of Seville_. You thought it was appropriate for the occasion." He runs his nail down the seam of the pillow next to him to buy a little time. "Am I crazy, Beckett, or have you been humming more lately? In real life, I mean."

"Maybe. I guess."

Ah ha, he thinks. He's onto something here. She looks a little guilty, or shy, or both. This is a clue. He'll get back to this.

"Never mind my humming, Castle. You said dreams, plural. You gonna tell me about another one?"

"It was last night."

"Last night!"

"Yeah, but it was funny."

"So it didn't involve me slitting your throat with a razor."

"You were very pissed off in it, and you did poke me hard in the chest a few times, but fortunately you weren't wielding a razor."

"Okay, go on. I guess."

"You rang the doorbell in the middle of the night."

"Well, there's a theme."

"But this time you stormed in and said I'd put a spell on you."

She raises her eyebrows.

"I know, I know. You said that I had turned you into an anagramist."

"What?"

"That's exactly what I said! In the dream. You said that you were about to text me something and when my name came up on the screen you suddenly began to think in anagrams and you couldn't stop. Said it was driving you crazy and I had to fix it."

"Anagrams? What kind of anagrams?"

"Oh, you had a bunch for my name. Like Slick Crate, which I really liked as a pick-up name in a bar, not that I ever pick up women in a bar, but if I did." He coughs. "And, um, It Crackles, and some others, including the disgusting Lice Tracks."

"I dunno, Castle, I like that one. Since you like to bug me."

"Like fleas."

"Fleas."

"I bring them up because apparently it was all my fault that your brain was infested with anagrams because I'd been talking about dogs, yesterday. Dog is God backwards, and then I mentioned that vile and live were anagrams. And that infected your brain. According to you."

"That is the dumbest thing you've ever said."

"Hey, it was a dream. Doesn't count in the Dumb Things tally. But to continue."

"Oh, please do."

"You were yelling and cursing at me and telling me I had put a spell on you and I had to reverse it."

"As I'm anagram-free, I guess you did."

"I did."

"Just out of curiosity, and because I know you're dying to tell me, just how did you reverse this hex?"

"Not hex, spell. A play on words. Anagrams."

"Right. How did you cast out this spell?"

"I kissed you."

"You kissed me? And that worked?"

"Yup. And you kissed me back."

"What?"

"I told you it was a dream. But you know, it felt exactly the way it did ten days ago. When I was awake. And so were you."

She's silent. Silent, and looking away.

"Ten days ago, Beckett."

Still silent.

He says it again, softly. "Ten days ago."

Silent.

"You remember ten days ago. I know you do. Outside the warehouse, where Espo and Ryan were being held."

She's still not looking at him when she mumbles, "That was just a diversion."

"Oh, it was a diversion, all right. It was spectacularly, mind-blowingly diverting. But I believed it, and I think you did, too. It felt like a dream, but oh my God, that was a real kiss."

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

Beckett blinks her eyes, slowly, several times. It's almost like a turtle, he thinks, though she couldn't be less turtle-like. Someone who didn't know her well might assume that she's tired, when she's quite the opposite.

She raises her head, but she's looking straight ahead. "You asked me about humming, a little bit ago. Have I been humming more lately? The answer is yes, I have." She pauses for what seems to be forever but is probably only seconds. "I used to hum all the time when I was growing up, and then I stopped. I've hardly hummed in the last twelve years. The thing is, even if I hum something like 'Supper Time,' which is a crushingly sad song, I do it only when I'm happy."

Now she turns towards him. She's not expressionless, but he can't quite identify it. Serene? Maybe she's serene. "That night, ten nights ago, after we got the boys, after you got your hand bandaged, I went home."

"With Josh." Jesus, had he not learned his lesson? Keep your mouth shut, he tells himself.

She blinks again, twice, before continuing. "No, not with Josh. I asked him please not to come with me, that I needed to be alone. When I got there, I just brushed my teeth and went to bed—I was exhausted, you know?" She stops again, and takes a deep breath. "But I was buzzing with adrenalin, and I had a terrible time getting to sleep. In the morning I hauled myself out of bed and while I was waiting for the coffee to brew, I suddenly noticed that I was humming. You know what it was?"

He doesn't say anything this time, just shakes his head.

"One of my favorite songs. 'All the Things You Are.' You must know it. I realized I was doing it right at this one line, 'Someday my happy arms will hold you.' And then I stood there in my kitchen and sang it, sang it as loud as I could. And it was very clear, even to me, exactly what was going on, not just in my head but in, uh, my life." She stops, and then she starts. "That you make me happy." Another pause, and this time she runs her tongue uncertainly over her bottom lip. "That was a real kiss, all right. That was one hell of a kiss."

She puts both hands out, palms up, to make sure he doesn't say anything.

"I was so happy, Castle, but so scared. I got through the day somehow, but as soon as my shift was over I went to the hospital and broke things off with Josh. And when I left I kept thinking, he never made me hum." She chokes on a laugh. "Oh, my God, that sounded filthy. Not a word, Castle. Not a word." She slides her hand across the sofa and puts it on top of his. "I'm so happy, but I'm still scared. I'm not ready to leap into anything quite yet, you know? Have to find my feet first."

He decides to take the chance. He doesn't say anything, but he does use his free hand to point at her feet, and smile.

"Yeah, I know. But Castle, everything that's happened in the last ten days, especially the last couple of hours? This is a lot to digest."

"Especially on top of filet mignon," he says, smiling. "And honey-roasted peanuts."

"Yeah," she looks shy again, like a middle-schooler with her first crush. "So, I'm going to go home now. And I'll see you tomorrow, right? Will you come in, even if there's no new case? You can pretend to help me with paperwork."

"Do you promise to hum?"

"Only loud enough for you to hear."

He lifts their joined hands and kisses her knuckles. "It's a deal."

They get up from the sofa and walk to the door. He's helping her on with her coat when she spins around and locks her arms around his neck, and hums something in his ear. "Give me a kiss," she whispers.

"Like the warehouse kiss?" he whispers back.

"Yeah, like that. And Castle?"

"What?"

"Don't be surprised by my tongue."

But he was. He didn't know a tongue could do what hers did.

"Perfect," she says afterwards, and breaks away. She's reaching for the door knob when he stops her.

"Wait, Beckett, wait. Can I ask you a question?"

"Okay, but just one."

"What were you humming just now?"

She smiles and puts her hand on his cheek. "I'll tell you later. Night, Castle."

How the hell is he supposed to go to sleep now? Maybe if he hits himself in the head with a frying pan. This had been one of the strangest evenings of his life, and look how it turned out. He knows he has to let her find her feet, but he wishes he could hurry her along. He tidies up the kitchen and living room and finally goes to bed. He's almost asleep when his phone rings, and he reaches for it so eagerly that he drops it.

"Shit. Ow!" He manages to hit the accept button just in time. "Beckett?"

"Hang up, Castle."

"Hang up? Excuse me, you just called me."

"I know."

"Well, don't you want to talk to me?"

"No, I do not. I want to talk to your voicemail, so hang up."

"Okay, okay. You're so bossy."

"I thought you liked that about me."

"I do, I do."

"Then hang up."

"I will. Night."

"Night."

Within seconds, the phone rings again. It takes more self-control than he thought he had not to pick up, but he doesn't. He lets five minutes drag by before he listens to his voicemail.

"You wanted to know what I was humming at the door. It's something by Louis Armstrong. I'm gonna hum it and then I'm gonna sing it because that's how I'm feeling. I think you'll like the words." Sure enough, there's her throaty hum, for thirty seconds. He's already beginning to moan—and then she starts to sing. He remembers her perfect alto when they all sang on the way to the Old Haunt a couple of months ago. He'd been so surprised by it, and he can't imagine why. And here she is again, except this time, it's just for him. No one else is joining in; no Ryan or Espo to listen to, only Beckett.

"Give me a kiss to build a dream on,  
And my imagination will thrive upon that kiss.  
Sweetheart, I ask no more than this,  
A kiss to build a dream on."

And now he can hardly breathe. He hits pause and waits for his heart rate to decelerate. It's torture not to play the rest. Maybe he should wait until the morning to continue. There's a good form of delayed gratification, since there's going to be a period of that now, while Beckett finds her feet. Her feet. Her feet are attached to those unbelievable legs, those legs that he can almost feel wrapped around him now. Delayed gratification. He puts down the phone and tries to sleep. Maybe he'll just listen to the humming part. He does, and stops again.

He wonders if this is what addicts feel like when they're waiting for a hit. He's jonesing for her voice.

He plays her singing the first verse, and stops it again. He'll go to sleep now. There's nothing wrong with his imagination. His imagination is thriving. Off the charts. Exploding.

The first thing he sees when he wakes up is his phone. He goes to voicemail before he's got even one leg out of bed. Verse two in that voice that can liquefy his heart:

"Give me a kiss before you leave me,  
And my imagination will feed my hungry heart.  
Leave me one thing before we part,  
A kiss to build a dream on."

Holy mother of God. He needs to take a cold shower if he's going to the precinct.

He shows up at Beckett's desk with the two coffees, no pain au chocolat. Just the normal. The usual. Except nothing is usual.

"Hey, Castle," she says.

"Morning, Beckett."

"Fancy seeing you here when there's no case. No fresh corpse. Just a foot-high stack of files."

"I love the smell of paperwork in the morning, Detective."

Esposito stops by. "Yo, Castle. What are you doing here?"

"Is that any way to greet the man who lets you drink free at his bar?"

"Yeah, well, we don't usually see you on homicideless days."

"If you must know, I'm here to annoy Beckett, and to avoid my ex-wife, who is hounding me for pages of my next book. Killing two birds with one stone."

"You calling me a bird, Castle?" she asks.

"Would that annoy you?"

"Yes."

"My work is done, then."

"Espo?" Beckett says, turning to her colleague. "Would you see if you can entertain this guy, please?"

"What's it worth?"

"A box of doughnuts."

"Done. Come over here, Castle."

He's happy to hang out with the boys for a bit, gives him a chance to watch her without her knowing it. Eventually he wanders into the break room, allegedly to get a bottle of water. He takes out his phone, types out something and waits for Beckett to pick up. When he sees her trying not to laugh, he returns to his chair.

"Very good, Castle."

"You liked that?"

"Yes. A picture of my feet and your saying that they're easy to find? Very good."

"Not as good as your song," he says quietly.

"You liked that?"

"I did."

She flips open a folder, takes out a pen and starts making notes.

He's not sure that he hears it at first, so he concentrates. Oh, yes, there it is.

"Is that what I think it is, Beckett?"

"What?"

"What you're humming."

"What do you think I'm humming?"

" 'Dream a Little Dream of Me'."

"Bingo."

"Two can play at this game, you know."

"Really? I dare you."

"Challenge accepted." He starts to hum, as softly as she had been.

She covers her mouth with her hand, but it doesn't completely stifle her laugh. " 'Getta Outta My Dreams, Get Into My Car' ?"

"Well, I do have a Ferrari, Beckett."

"Is it true what they say about a Ferrari? Since you've never let me drive yours."

"What do they say?"

"That it's sex on wheels."

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

Three days later, Beckett pulls up to the curb outside the nightclub where she and Castle are about to go undercover. "Wow. Nice car," she says, returning the keys that she had grabbed from her stunned partner's hand only fifteen minutes earlier. "I didn't think I'd get to find out so soon." She opens the door, steps out onto the sidewalk, and eyes him sultrily over the roof. "A Ferrari really is sex on wheels."

Before he can even attempt a comeback, she stalks into the club in her poured-on dress, about half an inch away from violating New York Penal Law 245.0, a.k.a. Public Lewdness. He's watching her and whimpering. If she doesn't find her feet very, very, very soon he's going to have to sweep her off them and carry her to the nearest available private space—and he doesn't really care what it is.

They quickly wrap up the arrest of the drug dealer; regrettably, Beckett wraps herself up, too, unwilling to interrogate the sleazeball in the dress that she was wearing when she slapped the cuffs on him in the club. Which, of course, leads Castle to start thinking about another use for those cuffs, which leads to her pinching him, hard, under the table.

"Excuse me, Mister Osminkowski. Mister Castle and I have to step out for a moment."

When they're on the other side of the door she grits out, "Castle! Pay attention! You look all moony."

"Sorry, I'm sorry. You should have washed off your perfume when you changed clothes. Very distracting."

"Okay, just pay attention. I'm letting you off easy this time because clearly he's not the killer, but he can give us some information." But as she's turning the doorknob, he hums something in her ear. "Castle!" she hisses.

"Hmmm?" He smiles. "After you, Detective." He waits for her to precede him into the room. She walks back in, and in less time than it would take to hum the "Wonder Woman" theme song extracts the information she needs from Osminkowski.

The team is leaving for the night, and the writer and the three detectives ride down in the elevator together. When they reach the street, they go their separate ways, but two steps later Beckett grabs Castle by the back of his coat. "David Bowie?" she says.

"Oh, you're good."

"Damn right I am. And don't ever do that again."

"What?" Mr. Faux Innocence asks.

"Hum when we're going into interrogation."

"I was just uncontainably happy. Besides, you said he wasn't the guy."

"Doesn't matter. Not professional."

"I'm sorry. Really, I am. Truly. I promise it won't happen again."

"Better not. And Castle?"

"Yes?"

She tilts her head forward just slightly, as if she's about to tell him some small thing before she gets in the cab that she just hailed. Except that she's not saying anything, she's singing—so softly that it barely reaches his ear. "In this age of grand illusion, you walked into my life, out of my dreams." Then she reaches for the handle and bends to get into the car. "That's an awfully dark song, Mister Bowie." She slams the door and is gone.

Wow, she is so much better than good. He takes out his phone and texts her. "It is dark. I just like the dream reference. How the hell do you even know that one?"

Her response is quick. "I'm a songbird, Castle. Night."

First thing the next morning he checks his phone for a text, and he's not disappointed. It's a link, and he clicks on it. Wow, not what he'd expected after last night. Seriously not what he'd expected. It's Kirsten Dunst, singing the sweetly gorgeous "Dream of Me."

He can't get to the precinct quickly enough. Bearing his usual high-octane, 16-ounce gift for Beckett, he stops at her desk. "Your coffee, Detective," he says, and slides onto his chair. The lid boasts a post-it note on which he's written some of the lyrics: "Maybe when he dreams he'll dream of me." He looks sideways at her. "Really?"

"Yeah," she says.

"I already do dream of you."

"I know."

"In great detail."

She gets up. "I'll be back in a minute." He watches as she grabs her bag from her desk and walks to the ladies room. His phone, which is in his right-hand jacket pocket, alerts him to an incoming text. He takes it out and as casually as possible looks at the screen. "Check the left-hand pocket of your coat."

He dips his hand in and comes up with a folded piece of paper. How the hell did she do that? "Meet me at 8 p.m. at 72nd and Riverside. Dress warmly."

She returns to her desk and he nods briefly. She smiles and says, "Let's get cracking, Castle. I want to nail this guy before lunch."

"You trying to get out of here early for a change?"

"I am."

"You have a date or something?"

"I do."

Castle grins like a kid, tips back his chair, and turns his head towards Esposito and Ryan. "Hey! Guys! Beckett says we have to get cracking. Apparently she has a date tonight."

That's all it takes to get them moving. "Motorcycle boy, huh?" Espo asks as he approaches. "The doctor got your blood pumpin', Beckett?"

"Not that it's any of your business, Javi, but no. Josh is no longer on my health plan."

"So who's the new guy?" Ryan asks.

"Not saying."

Castle joins in. "Not even a hint? How about a one-word description?"

She picks up a pen, walks to the murder board, and looks back over her shoulder at the three men. "Dreamy."

The boys snort; so does Castle, a beat behind but just in time.

They do, in fact, get the guy by lunch, and at six o'clock everyone heads out. "Night, Beckett," Ryan and Espo say as one.

"Be sure not to behave," Castle adds.

She wiggles her fingers at them, gets in her car, and drives home, where she changes into jeans, a thick sweater, and wool socks. She grabs a canvas tote bag from the closet and packs it with two small cushions, a quilt, a large thermos of coffee, and a bag of Levain Bakery dark chocolate peanut butter chip cookies for which she had stood in line for 35 minutes. They were worth all 2,100 seconds, and more, especially when she considers what Castle's reaction will be when he tastes one. She pulls on fleece-lined boots, a parka, a hat, and gloves, picks up the tote bag, and by 7:30 she's headed north on the West Side Highway. It's very cold, so when she parks in a police-vehicle spot at 73rd, she decides to wait in the car until Castle arrives. The man is always alarmingly prompt, and at 7:59 she sees him getting out of a cab half a block away.

"Hey, Castle," she shouts as she crosses the street. He's standing in front of the statue of Eleanor Roosevelt, and Beckett slips her arm through his. "C'mon."

"We're going in the park?" he squeaks. "It's dark!"

"Don't worry, Castle. I'll protect you. Besides, we're just going through a bit of it to get down to the river. Don't be such a wuss. Look around you. There are a ton of runners in here, and people with their dogs. Very safe."

"I am looking around me, Beckett, that's just the problem. This whole stretch looks creepily familiar," he says, waving his arm in a large arc, north to south. "In my mind's eye I see all kinds of murders here. It's one giant crime scene."

"One giant fake crime scene, Castle. They're always filming TV shows here, all the _Law & Orders_, things like that, because it's an arboreal and contained spot, and easy to close off. This little four-bock area is like the Cabot Cove of New York City." She tugs his arm. "Let's go."

" 'Arboreal' and a _Murder, She Wrote_ reference. No wonder I follow you anywhere, Beckett."

They take the path and the stairs to the Hudson, and walk quickly to a graceful pedestrian pier that juts out into the water. Pole lights on the pier are strong enough to illuminate chunks of ice that are floating downriver. "Let's sit," Beckett says, pointing to one of the benches as she gets the cushions from the bag. "These will keep our butts from freezing. Want some coffee?"

"Yes, please, yes."

She pours them each a cup and passes him the bag of cookies before sitting down next to him, unfolding the quilt, and spreading it across their laps. "It's beautiful out here, isn't it? And so quiet. It's hard to believe that we're in the city." She hears him open the bag.

"Oh, my God." He swallows. Oh, my God, this cookie." He swallows again and helps himself to another.

"I know, right? First time I had one it was an orgasmic experience."

And there goes the chocolate-peanut butter confection, which he had just bitten into, flying across the railing and into the river. "Beckett!"

She can't believe she said that. Apparently he is already burrowed deeper into her heart than she'd known. No covering it up now. She meets his astonished eyes. "TMI, Castle?"

"Hell, no. Not enough. Not nearly enough."

"That's all you're getting." She waits, and then squeezes his hand. "For now."

A coughing spell ensues.

She reaches into the bag that he's holding. "I believe I'll have one of these now. Yum. Mmmm." She moans. "Even better than the first time."

"Beckett! You have to stop that."

"Really? Okay. I'll leave the rest for you. Do I have any chocolate on my face?"

He leans in and points a gloved finger at the edge of her mouth. "Right there."

"Thanks. I'll just lick it off." Which she does, excruciatingly slowly, and noisily.

"Beckett?"

"Yes?" she answers chirpily.

"Could you tell me what we're doing out here? Other than your torturing me, of course."

"I never thought that you'd call cookies and coffee torture, Castle. I'll have to remember that in future."

"Please don't. Please don't remember that. I love coffee. And these cookies, especially these."

Her face changes. She's serious now, and he takes note. "And what about this place, Castle?"

"It's amazing. I didn't even know that it existed." He wants to say the same of the cookies, but he feels how the atmosphere has changed, too, and he doesn't want to make light of her question.

"It's hasn't been here long, only about ten years," she says, and takes his hand in hers. "I run, or ride my bike, or take the subway. It's been my favorite place to sit at night for a long time. I've never brought anyone else here. So that's why we've come. I wanted to show you the place where I let my mind wander. This is where I daydream, even though it's night. I've been coming up a lot, lately, daydreaming. I've even texted you from this seat."

"Yeah, really?"

"Really."

"Do I get to hear about any of those daydreams?"

"You might. But I thought you might like to hear about the dream that I had last night. You know, since you told me yours."

"I would. I so, so would."

"Okay, but you know what I'd like first?"

"Anything you ask. It's yours."

"A kiss."

"A kiss? Any special kind?"

"The best you've got with all these clothes on."

"How about a Mocha Supreme?"

"What's that?"

"The kiss I've wanted to give you forever, when you'll taste of your two favorite flavors, chocolate and coffee, like you will right now. Mocha."

"Mmmm," she says, or hums, he's not entirely sure.

The first thing he does is take off his gloves and her hat, despite the weather. Too hell with the cold, he wants to feel her hair and her skin. He pulls her onto his lap, so that they're facing each other, and begins his sensual, sensory exploration. And it really does involve all the senses: touch, sight, taste, smell, even hearing, given the transporting little sounds she's making. He's attentive to every bit of her exposed skin, and every bit of it, like the velvety eyelids, excites him. It's her mouth, though, her mouth and tongue, that could be his lifelong—please, please, please—undoing. Just as he's reveling in the warmth and the silkiness and yes, the mochaness, her tongue will dart at his, or trap it, or suck or glide or move very gently, and it's the ever-shifting patterns and pressures that, oh, God. His hands are buried in her hair, as hers are in his, but he slides one down the front of her jacket and undoes the two bottom buttons. He runs his palm up her rib cage and cups her breast, and even through the bulky sweater she's wearing he can feel her nipple harden. He opens his hand, spreading his fingers and pressing down, and leaves her mouth to whisper in her ear. "I want to feel your heartbeat," he says, just as he senses her hand snaking under his own jacket.

"Castle," she says, kissing him just below his ear. "Mocha Supreme is incredible, but it's too cold to have my coat every partway open."

"Yeah, you're shivering," he says, rebuttoning her.

"It's not just from the cold," she says. She ducks her head, and her hair falls forward so that he can't see her face. He knows—at last, or at least for this moment—to let her say whatever she's going to say at her own pace. "You know the song from this morning?" she asks into his chest.

"Which? Oh, Kirsten Dunst? 'Dream of Me'?

"Yeah. I meant another line from that song, Castle, not the one you wrote on the post-it note." He continues to sit quietly, which is completely against his nature. She finally says it, and now she's looking him in the eyes. " 'They tell me love is just a dream away.' That's the dream I had last night."

TBC

 **A/N** Thank you for reading this, and for all the reviews, follows and favorites. Special gratitude to Guests like Hawkie and Moochiechat who are such steadfast reviewers but whom I cannot thank personally.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

She slides off his lap to get the thermos, and pours more coffee into their mugs. And then, unexpectedly, she laughs. "It's so weird, the door thing."

"The door thing? What's that?"

She settles down next to him on the bench. "In your two dreams, I showed up at your door, unannounced. You did the same in mine, more than once."

"I thought this was one dream," he says, wrapping his arm around her.

"It was, but you kept showing up in it. Kind of like at work, at the beginning, when you kept showing up even when I didn't want you to."

"You did."

"No arguments, Castle. Let me tell you my dream."

"Do I get to eat a cookie while you do?"

"Go to town," she says, and hands him the bag. "Last night I dreamed that I was reading the newspaper in my living room when I heard a knock on the door. I was surprised because it was really early in the morning and I wasn't expecting anyone, but I got up and looked out and there you were, wearing bunny ears."

"Bunny ears? You mean like Bugs?"

"Well, no, like Easter. The Easter Bunny. And you also had enormous bunny feet on over your shoes. I said, 'Castle?' and you said, 'May I hop in?' Which of course you did without waiting for an answer."

"The Easter Bunny is an irresistible guy, Beckett. A lovable lagomorph. I must have assumed that of course you'd invite him in."

"Right. Well, anyway, hop in you did, carrying a big basket. You said, 'Happy Easter, Beckett.' I said that it was October—which it was, at least in the dream—and you said, 'You know how I like to get a jump on the holiday.' "

"That's true."

"To continue. You hopped into my kitchen and took off the napkin that was on the top of the basket. Inside there was a carton of eggs—"

"Dyed your favorite shade of purple?"

She shakes her head. "How do you know my favorite color? Never mind. No, they weren't dyed, they weren't even cooked yet. That was the point. You also had a bottle of white vinegar and several little bottles of food coloring. 'I brought these supplies, Beckett, which should be staples in every civilized kitchen, but I was pretty sure that you didn't have them, am I right?' Before you interrupt again, yes, you were right. And then you got a big saucepan and put a dozen eggs on to boil. And while they were cooking we had breakfast, which of course was also in that basket. Muffins, rolls, jam, orange juice, a fruit salad. You asked if there were coffee, so I got you a cup and when I turned around there were four little chocolate bunnies on my plate."

"They must have multiplied in the basket. I bet when I left home there were only two."

"Doubtless. By the time we'd finished eating, the eggs were hard-boiled and we decorated them. One of other the things in the basket was a white crayon. You said, 'This is so we can write secret messages on some of the eggs and once we've dyed them we'll be able to read them.' You know what you wrote on mine? BAD ASS BADGE 41319."

"Geez, that's pretty strong language from the Easter Bunny, 'bad-ass'. What did you write on mine?"

"SOME BUNNY. And you were quite a bunny. Even had a tail on your jeans. Pretty cute, I have to say. You didn't put it on until you got to my apartment, though. Said you didn't dare wear it in public. When we finished decorating the eggs you asked me if I had any white underwear." She can hear him snort, but she's not stopping. "I said, 'Who are you, the Playboy Bunny?' and you told me that when Alexis was little she always wanted to tie-dye her little white socks with the leftover Easter egg coloring. And I said then why didn't you ask if I had any white socks and you said because underwear was so much more interesting."

"It is," he says, squeezing her thigh dangerously close to the top.

"Hmph. When I wouldn't agree to dye any underwear you said that was okay, you had to be getting home and you left. I went back to the living room and picked up the paper to finish the story I was reading when you'd arrived, and I heard knocking. I figured maybe you'd forgotten something, so I opened the door and there you were in a Santa hat, saying, 'Merry Christmas.' I said, 'It's October, Castle, remember? You were just here.' You told me you hadn't been here in ages and that it was the middle of summer, and sure enough, my air conditioner was going full blast. You held up a red velvet Christmas stocking that you'd been hiding behind your back and said, 'It's Christmas in July!' Then you waltzed right into the kitchen and got us each a cup of coffee and put a candy cane in mine. Surprisingly good, by the way."

He's almost bouncing with excitement. "Did you open the stocking? What was in there?"

"You do remember that this was a dream, right? The stocking wasn't actually real."

"Don't care. I want to know what I, your Dream Santa, put in there."

"It was kids' stuff. Jacks and a ball, a light-up yo-yo. Let me see. Oh, earmuffs that looked like mittens, one red that said STOP and a green that said GO. A neon pink jump rope, a pack of cards."

"Pack of cards could be for adults." He helps himself to another cookie. "Strip poker."

"Uh, yeah, well, funny you should mention."

Now he's almost flying off the bench. "We played strip poker!"

"Calm down, Saint Nick. No, we did not. However, the last thing in the stocking, right in the toe, was a little book. Inside the cover it said 'Limited Edition. One of Two Copies'."

"C'mon, c'mon, what was it?"

"The book was illustrated by hand—you had one copy, I had the other. It was called _How to be a Sizzlingly Hot Stripper_ by Nikki Heat."

"Oh, my God. I have to see this, Beckett."

"Castle! It's imaginary!"

"Well, your imagination came up with it, and you could at least tell me. It's really kind of a coproduction, right? Since I'm the one who writes Nikki Heat."

"Sorry to disappoint you, but that's when I woke up, so I can't tell you anything about it."

"That's the end of the dream? I am totally disappointed."

She takes the bag of cookies back and peers inside. "You ate _all_ of them?"

He quickly kisses her on the cheek. "What can I say, Beckett, you really stimulate my appetite."

"No, it's not the end of the dream. I woke up for some reason, and I wrote down what I could remember of the dream because I was afraid I'd lose it. And then I went back to bed, and I swear I wasn't asleep for more than a minute before you were back, knocking on the door."

"Not Santa anymore?"

"Nope, Uncle Sam. You had one of those red-and-white striped top hats, with a blue band that had white stars on it. You barged right in, grabbed my hand and said, 'Follow me, Beckett,' and we went up my little flight of stairs to the roof. It was chilly up there. You pulled a box out of your jacket pocket, and a book of matches. And all of a sudden there you were with two sparklers. You handed me one and said, 'Happy Fourth of July!' When I said it was the fourth of October, you said no matter, it was a holiday somewhere. And then you remembered that Mexico became a federal republic on October Fourth, so that would do. When I accused you of making that up you got your phone and Googled it and showed me." She looks hard at him. "You are really weird sometimes, the things you know."

"The real me or the dream me?"

"Both. God, Castle, I'm starving and you ate all the damn cookies."

"Hang on." He starts patting all his pockets, and smiles. "Aha!" He undoes the top of his coat, reaches deep inside and comes up with an oversized Snickers. "Here you go," he says, offering it to her.

"You came here with a huge candy bar?"

"Can you blame me? I didn't know where we were going or for how long. You said to dress warmly so I gathered that we'd be outside and probably not near a food source, and I was right."

"Hey! I brought eight cookies."

"I didn't know you were going to, and besides, one of mine landed in the river and you had one, too. Snickers is my go-to emergency backup."

"Good, I'll be eating it now then. I need fuel to tell you the rest of the dream."

"So what happened with the sparklers?"

"We went through the whole box. Eight of 'em. Like the cookies."

"Did we do anything special?"

"Well, you leaned over the wall—nearly gave me a heart attack, by the way—waving your sparkler around and yelled, 'It's the glorious fourth!' to some guy on the sidewalk. And he yelled back 'Of October, asshole!' And you said, 'Quick, Beckett, how do you say "we're Mexicans" in Spanish?' I told you and you leaned back over and shouted, ' _Somos mexicanos, pendejo_ '!"

" _Pendejo_?"

"Yeah, I'm still trying to figure out why you couldn't say something as simple as 'we're Mexicans' but you knew the word for 'asshole'."

"That's the beauty of dreams, Beckett."

She pokes him in the ribs. "You're proud, aren't you?"

"Of course I am, swearing in Spanish. What else did we do on the glorious fourth?"

She moves slightly, as if she's hesitant about what to say next. "Oh, you know, the usual."

"What usual?" When she doesn't answer, he presses her. "You embarrassed, Beckett? I told you the embarrassing stuff in my dreams."

"Okay, okay. We wrote stuff, the way everyone always does with sparklers."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Jesus, Beckett, this is like pulling teeth. What did we write? No, amendment, what did you write?"

She takes a while before answering. "It wasn't just what I wrote, it was that it stayed there."

His eyes widen. "It stayed there? You mean the sparkly thing you wrote? How could it stay there?"

"You're asking me? You're the one who believes in magic. Plus, may I repeat, it was a dream."

"You're not getting away with not telling me."

"Okay," she sighs. "I drew an enormous heart and inside it I wrote KB + RC."

Now it's his turn to be quiet, until finally he's asks, "How did I respond to that?"

"You smiled and said, 'That's all I need to know.' And then, poof, you disappeared, but the heart with our initials stayed in the air. I stayed up there for a while, looking at it, and then I came back down because I was cold."

"So, that was the end of the dream?"

"No, but it's the last part that I remember well. You came to the door a bunch more times, once as Saint Patrick with a shillelagh and a bouquet of shamrocks, and also as Saint Valentine. You were wearing a red sweater and a halo and you said you wanted to come dressed as cupid, but you were damned if you were walking into my building wearing nothing but a 'ribbon over my naughty bits,' as you so daintily put it, carrying a bow and arrows."

"Was that the last one? Valentine?"

"No, it was—." She puts her hands over her face.

He pulls them down, and even in the dim light can see that she's blushing. "It was?"

"Oh, God. I remember it now!"

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

Her dream, at least the parts that she has described so far, isn't embarrassing at all—except maybe for him, the bunny tail thing—so what could be blush-worthy? "You gonna tell me?" She's still not talking, so he keeps trying. "Hallowe'en?"

"No, though you did show up as The Great Pumpkin or something. That one's pretty fuzzy."

"How about Arbor Day? Given your love for things arboreal. Did we swing naked from the trees?"

"No."

"Thanksgiving?"

After she shakes her head he mentally flips through a catalogue of holidays, major and minor. Flag Day? Memorial Day? Martin Luther King, Jr. Day? Veterans Day? Presidents' Day? National Chocolate Cake Day? None seems likely, and he's afraid that if he runs too many by her she'll shut down. And then, boom! One pops up. Oh, this has to be it. He doesn't know why he's sure, but he is. "I've got it," he says.

"You do, huh?"

"Groundhog Day. That's it, isn't it? I can feel you quivering."

"Okay, okay, okay, yes. It was Groundhog Day."

She's leaving it at that, just an admission? A confirmation? No way. He wants details. She owes him details. "I bet I didn't knock that time. I bet I gnawed at the door, didn't I, Beckett?" He nudges her. "With my big groundhog teeth."

"You did have those teeth. They were plastic. I made you take them out."

"What about cute little fuzzy ears?"

"Yup, those too."

"You know you're gonna have to tell me, so you might as well spit it out."

"All right, you win. In the last part of my dream, it was really early in the morning, so it was still dark. You knocked on the door and when I saw you I said, 'Don't tell me, you're Punxsutawney Phil.' You looked at me like I was crazy and said, 'Of course I am, Beckett. You know that. I just left a few minutes ago.' Then you asked if I'd had breakfast yet. I said no and you said that was good because you had run out and bought something for us while I was still asleep. Carrot cake."

"Carrot cake?"

He knew she was rolling her eyes. "You said that carrots were especially good for improving the night vision of groundhogs."

"Probably true. Go on."

"So we had some coffee and carrot cake."

"Then what? Because clearly this is not the end."

"You turned off the lights and opened the door. And you went out in to the hall, shrieked, and ran back in."

"I shrieked?" He puts his hand over his heart. "I never shriek."

"You shrieked, Castle. And after you shut the door again you said, 'I saw my shadow, Beckett. You know what that means, don't you? We have six more weeks of winter, and we're going to spend it in bed'."

"Well?"

"And you scooped me up in your arms and carried me to bed."

"Don't tell me we just curled up and went to sleep."

"No."

"Is this by any chance the moment at which you insisted I divest myself of the plastic groundhog teeth?"

"Yes."

"How did you persuade me to do that? And no paraphrasing. I want to know exactly."

"Oh, God. I said 'Castle, there's no way you're wearing those teeth if, uh, if you're going to be, um, burrowing'."

Even as he's laughing so hard that he can barely breathe, he's grateful that he doesn't have a cookie in his mouth or he'd be choking to death on the pier over the frozen Hudson. Finally he pulls himself together. "Well, did I? Burrow?"

"Oh, yeah," she says.

"And?"

"Let's just say I'd have been happy to stay there for six weeks."

He knows he shouldn't feel smug, since she's talking about a dream, but he's really, really looking forward to showing her what the real version of him can do. He also doesn't want to scare her off, so he's still a little careful with his words and he feigns a prim look. "I must say, Beckett, that unlike my dreams about you, yours about me was most assuredly not PG. I feel so used."

"Mine was completely PG until the end."

"Finished with a bang, eh?" Shit, that wasn't very careful. Oh, but he hears her chuckle. That has to be a good sign.

"Castle? We should go. It's way too cold to stay out here any longer."

"Can I buy you a drink, Detective? I happen to know a very fine bar, not far from where you live. There are no cookies, but the peanuts are high-quality."

Half an hour later they're nestled in his office in the Old Haunt, each with a glass of Scotch from his private stock, and still warming up. "Can I ask you something?" he says, his cheek pressed against her hair. "And not just because you're lying on a couch. What did you get from that dream? Because you mentioned before, you know, the song about love being just a dream away."

She moves a little so that she can tilt her face up to his. "I was really struck that it was, on the surface, about holidays, but you are a very holiday-centric man. The thing is, every holiday for you is an adventure, and I think that's what you wanted to give me. Adventure. The other day I told you that I realized that you make me happy. That's what that dream was about, most of all. Each time you were at at the door, with each holiday, you brought me joy. I didn't tell you this earlier, but in my dream, it was always a Sunday."

He looks down into her eyes. "A Sunday? Why?"

"Because I don't work on Sundays. You showed up on Sundays because you knew I'd be there, not buried in a case at at the precinct. It was so sweet."

"Good to know that the dream me is sweet."

"He is. The real one is, too. Except when he's driving me crazy."

"Awwww."

She sits up, stretches and yawns. "Time for me to go home. I'm exhausted. Glad it's Friday so I can sleep in." She checks her watch. "Geez, Castle, it's really late. I hope Alexis isn't worried about you."

"She and two other girls are having a sleep over at another friend's. They'll be up half the night talking about boys. And there better not be any boys within 500 years of that apartment."

Beckett picks up her bag from a chair by the door. "Martha out on the town, too?"

"Yeah, out on the town in Boston," he says, helping her into her coat. "She went up to see a play because an old pal from summer-stock days is in it."

"That's nice. Um, I'll call you in the morning, okay?"

"Okay."

"I was hoping maybe we could do something. If you're free?"

"Oh, I'm free," he answers, as they step out into the street and head for her car. He's hoping for something, too, just not saying what.

After she opens her car door she turns and kisses him lightly on the lips. "Night, Castle."

"Night, Beckett. Tomorrow?"

She smiles, and drives away.

He's so over-caffeinated and so excited at the prospect of going on what seems to be a date with Beckett that he can't sleep. He plays video games, which he knows is ill-advised because it makes him ever more wired than he already is, but he doesn't care. He's trying to remember the last time he felt this happy, and eager, when his phone pings with an incoming text.

"You awake, Castle?"

"Yeah, couldn't sleep."

"You should go to bed."

"So should you."

"I'm about to. See you later."

"Later."

The doorbell rings. It can't be. He knows he's awake, even though it's 3:00 a.m. He'll splash cold water on his face to make sure. He's convinced, and toweling off, when he hears the doorbell again. It has to be.

"Hey, Castle."

"Beckett? This is a surprise."

"Told you I'd see you in the morning. It may be early in the morning, but it's morning, so here I am."

Before she can unbutton her coat he says, "Hold on, I'll be right back."

He tears through the living room and goes into his office; within seconds, he's running back. "Thank God, it's still made."

"What's still made?"

"The bed. That means I haven't gone to bed yet, and this can't be a dream."

"Not a dream, I promise."

"Just to be safe, hit me."

"What? Hit you?"

"Smack me one. If I feel it, I know I'm not dreaming."

"Close your eyes, Castle."

"Okay."

And the next thing he knows, she's wrapping herself around him, kissing him—and then pinching his butt, hard.

"Ow!"

She's laughing. "You know how long I've wanted to do that? To pinch that sexy ass of yours?"

"Gotta say, Beckett, I'm a hundred percent sure I'm awake." She has turned away from him and is walking towards the door. "Wait! Wait! Where are you going? Don't leave!"

She looks over her shoulder and grins. "Just taking my coat off, Castle. Don't get too excited." She unzips her boots, pulls them off, and drops her coat on the floor before turning around again and walking straight at him. "Actually, please do. Get excited."

She's barefoot, wearing nothing but the tiniest, wispiest, sexiest nightgown he has ever seen. He'd say that this gossamer bit of lingerie left nothing to the imagination, except that he's imagining all sorts of things, all of them filthy.

"Beckett?" He's gaping. He can't help it. He points to the floor. "Does this mean that you, that you found your feet?"

"I did. You know, I told you a few minutes ago that you should go to bed."

"Right, you did." He's still gaping, not at her feet but at her breasts, which will pop out of that nightgown if she moves half an inch.

"And I said I was going to bed, too."

His eyes are enormous, and are now looking right into hers, which are suddenly only inches away. "Uh huh."

"So, I thought we should do that together."

"Best thought ever, Beckett," he says, then kisses her as passionately and as long as both can manage, until they finally have to move apart.

"Oh, no," she says. "I have much better thoughts than just that, much, and I'm guessing you do too. Come on. It certainly _feels_ as if you do." She grabs his hand, and when they get to the door of his bedroom she stops. "Just for the record, Castle? I'm terrible at anagrams."

"You are? I don't mind."

She moves forward until his back is pressed against the wall. "And the only one I can think of for my own name is just of my first name, not even the whole thing. TAKE."

"Take?"

"TAKE is an anagram of KATE."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. That's supposed to be a hint, Castle. I want you to take me. Now."

And just like that, the nightgown is gone.

 **A/N** Happy Valentine's Day everyone. Thank you again for all your support for this story, the moral of which is: dreams do come true.


End file.
